From Iron to Gold
by Wolfblade670
Summary: A Lord Commissar stands within the Red Keep, before him lies Westeros, now under the Imperium's benevolent heel, and a meeting with the man he has chosen to wield power in its name...


Lord Commissar Lucan Bosch gazed over the stinking heap of a city that stretched before him, made all the more unpleasent by the odour that wafted from the half-charred hovels than lined the muddy streets. It had all the horrid, seared, rotting smell of a battle just passed, with the addition of a population ignorant of esoteric developments such as soap and not trodding in one's own filth. He reached to scratch his sagging chin, then realised hygeine had escaped more than the immediate citzenry. A scraggly, three day beard on a Lord Commissar, and him with an audience almost upon him? That would not do. A commissar in the field, a _good_ one, was filthier than the man next to him. A commissar in barracks however, had ensure his boots could serve as a shaving mirror. At least this muck filled rat trap was advanced enough the substitution was unnecessary.

He shed the heat of his black woolen coat heavy with brocade, rolled his shirtsleeves and filled a wash basin. No soldier went to his grave without a simple love of hot, reasonably clean water. As he stropped the razor, he studied himself in the folding mirror that sat on the table. Deep lines, of both laughter and rage, and scars as good as decorations. The corpulence that had begun to creep upon him in his old age still concealed slabs of rolling muscle; in his youth he had been compared more than once to a snarling boar. The thought amused him. A war had begun here, some had said, because of a boar, and now a boar had finished it. He snorted a laugh, clearing his nose, only for the wind to billow and fill the room with its smell yet again.

King's Landing. They would have to change the name, he thought. Emperor's Landing perhaps. Though the igorant indigenous might name it after him. Quietly he hoped not; it was no great point of pride to subjugate savages in plate armour waving spears, not with orbital, aerial, and technical superiority. He sighed, trying not to inhale too deeply afterward. He never ceased to be saddened by feudal worlds. Man, the greatest species in the Galaxy, reduced to ignorant squalor, never knowing the stars or the glories that lay to be claimed among them. To be left cowering in their huts, never knowing the Emperor's Light, never knowing their true worth as servants to His will. To free them from that, at least, could bring him some small satisfaction. Well, that, and summarily crushing the petulant children masquerading as their lords.

It would have been difficult to ask for a more ideal situation to launch a conquest: countless petty kingdoms warring for dominance over the famine wracked charnel house they themselves had created. Crushing their armies had, in truth, been only a trivial part of his success. When his troops began handing out ration packs...well, enthusiastic could hardly describe the response. An artillery salvo and a few lasgun volleys persuaded those that remained. Its a peculiar thing, watching a man flashboil inside a steel harness. For but a moment perhaps, the smell of cooking flesh seemed more real than the scent of soap and filth.

The aftermath was duller work. Those that bent the knee were allowed to retain their paltry little fiefdoms, with a few new laws tacked on, of course. Those that refused were liquidated, and their holdings turned over to wiser heads. Such to the vanquished, and their silly Five Kings. None had truly been fit to rule; not the dead wolf, not the shrieking queen and her mad child...with the exception of one perhaps. What was it? Baratheon? Stern and strong, that one. That may have been his undoing, in the end. He would not submit, not even in words alone. It couldn't be helped, Lucan supposed. A man with a witch whispering in his ear may well have been unsalvageable. Her ravings of a greater threat to the north were being investigated; the delay of their expected report was no doubt due to those perfidious weather patterns even orbital sensors struggled with. A minor concern compared to sorting out this viper's nest. In the end they had found a more...amiable man, one who understood the game, and its stakes. Some of his more peculiar qualities had raised eyebrows. These had also, in a way, rendered him ideal.

The man had his enemies of course, but with the full backing of the Imperium, they would not inconvenience him long. Lucan would depend on him to keep the native situation under control, so the Lord Commissar could better focus on building up his logistical base on this Westrosi continent in preparation for an assault on the remaining landmasses. Where to begin? Essos, perhaps. From his reports, the polities there were even more of a shamble, and would have made an even easier first conquest. Of course, they lacked necessary resources to exploit, and they would likely present some rather _special_ problems. The Inquisitorial and Ministorum assets seconded to his forces would relish the work. He gave a satisfied grunt. The razor had just begun to grow warm as it cleared the last of the stubble away.

He analysed himself in the mirror, running a hand over a now smooth jaw. He was himself much like a razor, he mused, cutting away the filth to leave behind a being clean, polished, fierce, a visual essence of order. He regarded the instrument, studying his own warped reflection in the blade. A perfect shave; efficient, surgical, nigh bloodless. One task had been far grander than the other, but the outcomes were identical. He allowed himself pride in that. He smiled, and watched the steel twist his grin.

He glanced at his chronometer, then chided himself. The natives had not yet developed such a finely honed sense of time, and it was starting to sluggard him. He straightened his shirt and shrugged back into his black and crimson vestment; a symphony of little gilded clinks as he buckled on his swordbelt and his medals jostled on his lapel. The bolt pistol was chambered and slipped into a makeshift holster tacked to the underside of his table. Physically he had little to fear from his guest. Paranoia however, was a habit of long life.

A knock sounded against the chamber door. Permissions were asked and granted, and the oaken slab creaked inward, revealing the Lord Commissar's long awaited guest. He was flanked by a pair of the Dua Filloi, radiant in motley, slashed doublets of blue and gold and armour far more stalwart than the polished steel it imitated. A fine choice for occupation duty, he reflected; the regiment's homeworld and aesthetics were similar enough the locals would find them relatable, if still terrifying. The man between them was as remarkable, but for different reasons. He brushed off the escort with a ribald pun, hobbling across the chamber to, with slight difficulty, seat himself before the Lord Commissar's table. He helped himself to a rather large goblet of wine and, quite unusually, left it to Lucan to have the first word. The commissar was happy to oblige. Pouring himself a vintage with a gloved hand, he greeted his guest's sardonic gaze with a smile, and broached the silence.

'Lord Tyrion Lannister...or should I say, _Lord Governor_? Let's get down to business, shall we?'


End file.
